


You Best Not Miss

by PBJellie



Category: South Park
Genre: Elves, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantasy, M/M, Princess Kenny McCormick, Romance, Royalty, South Park: The Stick of Truth, Stick of Truth AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 11:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18893926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJellie/pseuds/PBJellie
Summary: "When you come at the King, you best not miss."Tweek "the Barbarian" fulfills a duty for his Princess. All he has to do is retrieve the crown.





	You Best Not Miss

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all. This is a failed piece for Cryle week. I really liked the way it turned out, so enjoy.
> 
> I'm going to put triggers in the end notes, just in case you want them, but they will most definitely spoil the story.

“You've got a new friend,” the Elven King said, tossing a scruffy looking man into Tweek's cell. The man locked eyes with him, and Tweek purposefully kept his face blank. “He doesn't know what we're saying. The Barbarian's are slow.” 

“I'm grateful for such generous companionship, your highness,” the man smiled coyly. 

“You ought be grateful, Feldspar,” the King jutted his chin out, all sharp angles. Not that Tweek wasn't all sharp angles. Months in captivity would do that to a man, especially one that was scruffy to start with. “It's generous you're not locked away with the Wizard. It speaks of my graciousness.” 

Tweek knew that the Elven King was not particularly gracious or generous. 

He also knew that the King had a soft spot for men who would be pliant beneath him. On occasion, Tweek would do the job. An extra task as he worked at being a captive.

Work for the Princess. 

It’d be worth it, he would think as he panted beneath the King. He wasn’t particularly skilled, but it was no matter. Tweek thought of it as practice. Not that he hadn’t practiced with the Princess already. Her knights practiced with her, and they practiced amongst themselves.

The Princess wasn’t nearly as boring. Maybe the first time he was penetrated in shackles was exciting, but the tenth time was a chore. He didn’t even bother to pantomime enjoyment. 

Barbarians wouldn’t do that kind of thing. 

Tweek wasn’t sure if they would or not, actually. Tweek was fairly sure that Barbarians didn’t exist. They’d laughed about it in the stockyards, teasing each other about the fairy tales their mothers had told them. 

Tweek’s mother hadn’t been one for tales, but he joked along. One of the men, Scott, had shivered with fear while he recounted a story his half-elf nanny had told him as a child. About how the Barbarians live in the woods and steal children. She’d always told him that they ate the kids, boiling their bones into stew. 

A farrier had said that his mother had warned how they made the children vanish. That they became Barbarians. And if he was bad, then he’d be banished to the woods to become one. 

It sounded ridiculous to Tweek. 

He’d told the Princess. It was a passing comment, about how asinine the whole fear was. There were real fears to be had, like an Elven invasion, a curse from the Wizard King. Why use something fictional to scare your children when you could just show them how an Elven child could kill you from five hundred yards with a bow? How they wouldn’t hesitate to kill you. 

Turns out, they would. The Princess was right, and he trusted her. Tweek trusted Princess Kenny with his life, so when he was set in the woods with war paint and a canteen, he had faith that it’d go well. Over that faith was a puddle of panic, but beneath that, under the terror, he trusted her. 

And she was right, he wasn’t dead.

“So, do you like being chained to the wall?” Feldspar asked, milling about the cell. Tweek didn’t know why Feldspar got to be free and he was restrained. But it’s not like he could blow his cover and ask. 

Tweek looked as vacant as he could while he spoke. He didn’t smile as Feldspar cycled through two other languages. His Orc was atrocious, but Tweek couldn’t tell him. 

Nor could he tell him that his clothes were trashy. If you were going to wear a primary color, then you ought to redye it every few months, and he had clearly not bothered. Tweek glanced at his feet, and while he wasn’t barefoot, he had canvas shoes. 

He was just a poor human. Tweek had rode past hundreds just like him on horseback every day. They probably shopped the same markets, haggling with the same baker for a deal on bread. Maybe this man stole his bread.

Had he tried to steal from the Elves? 

Tweek stifled a laugh. 

Surely, a man who knew three languages was smart enough to know not to sneak into Elven territory to steal.

“I guess you don’t talk much,” Feldspar sighed, continuing to pace. “I don’t either. I don’t talk much usually.” 

This man seemed to do a lot of talking. 

“If I’m talking to you, it’s a conversation. If I’m speaking aloud to myself, then I’m a lunatic. I suppose it’s a blessing to have a companion in my cell.” 

He could just try not talking, Tweek thought to himself as he picked at the dirt beneath his nails. He’d never get it all out. And even in the event that his nails were clean, they’d just revert back once he scratched his arm. It was an uphill battle, but a battle nonetheless. 

The Princess had told him that something to do was always better than nothing to do. He had taken the advice to heart, whittling sticks into sharp points as he hid in the woods. 

It had worked in his favor, in the end. A rucksack full of makeshift spears made him look more the Barbarian. One Elf had paused, wondering if it was a trap, but the other sentinel had looked at him, laughing. They’d tried to communicate with him in Elvish, then in English, but Tweek had kept his guard up. 

He didn’t react as they taunted him, nor did he threaten the men. He just stood there, the sticks against his back, his canteen heavy against his leg. He reeked of dead rabbit, but the soldiers just seemed to think it was a Barbarian thing. 

In earnest, Tweek didn’t realize he’d stumbled into Elvish land, but it was no matter. The job was to steal the Elven crown, and the easiest way to do that was from within the palace. 

He reminded himself as he was dragged in, feet in shackles, that beneath the palace was still by all accounts a success. 

“Does he come around often?” Feldspar asked. “I heard the rumors, that he has relations with his favorites. Is that truth or more idle gossip at the tavern?” 

God above, Tweek exhaled, hoping he didn’t just break his cover. Did this man get captured to have some sort of torrid affair with the King? There were easier ways to get a lay, Tweek was certain. It’s not like he was unattractive, thick dark hair, sinewy arms, with tan skin. From the bulge in his tunic he seem endowed.

A man so desperate for company that he got himself captured by the Elvish Guard. A man who was hard at the idea of some prissy King pressing him up against a wall and fondling him. A King could never lay on the ground, after all. He’d defile his royal robes, which he never removed.

The doe skin smelled perpetually of sex. Did he not have a kingdom to rule? The Princess had advisers, as well as her sister for assistance, and it’s not like she was flush with time for personal enrichment. 

It was common knowledge that the Elvish King did not have trusted advisers. Trust was not something that Elves did particularly well. Someone was always trying to take something from them, or maliciously attacking. Any slight was intentional and an outrage.

“It’s a thing I have,” Feldspar smiled impishly. “I enjoy,” he paused, inching closer to Tweek, “personal connection.” 

Tweek pulled as far from the wall as the chains would allow, a few meters, but it was enough. He ran a hand across Feldspar’s face. He’d be loud, he decided. Wanton. If this man was truly one of easy virtue, then perhaps he’d have some enjoyment in his dry spell. 

And honestly, his enjoyment was simply an extra. Unrestrained sex would call the King down into the dungeon, red with rage. One of the guards would tell him, and then he’d march down, sending the guards away from their posts. 

Tweek was quite certain that the guards knew the King. How could someone be in such close quarters with a deviant and be spared? The Princess spoke of his weaknesses, reminding Tweek as he dazed off in a post orgasmic haze in the royal chambers. He was, in her exact words, a pompous asshole, and a nymphomaniac.

They’d had a brief but unsuccessful alliance. One where the Princess rarely left their chamber. She complained about the robe, which Tweek wholeheartedly agreed with. She also complained about the dagger he kept tucked in his boots. Like she was going to start a coup with her dress flung onto the desk. 

Tweek didn’t mind starting a revolution in the nude.

“You’d be a catch if you were clean,” Feldspar ran a hand down Tweek’s chest. The war paint, which had been mostly a joke, was long gone. For a few moments he toyed with his nipples, casually. 

Regardless, he moaned louder than was necessary. 

“You are a pretty thing,” Feldspar laughed, putting two fingers under Tweek’s chin. 

He hated being called pretty. He was a knight, for the kingdom’s sake. He could ride a horse through the forest and lose any tail in a matter of minutes. If everything boiled down to how attractive his delicate bone structure was, and how quaint the tips of his ears were, then what was even the point of learning to do anything. 

If he was only to exist to be pretty, then he might as well be stuck in some menagerie, with her Highness checking him out like a book from the royal library. If that was to be his sole purpose, then being covered in dirt running a covert mission was a waste of his talents.

There was a kiss at his neck, then a hand running through his hair. The King never did that. He wasn’t into any sort of intimacy, just brute force. Not that he was particularly strong. Elves weren’t known for that, they were known for being cunning.

“Oh, I see,” Feldspar snickered, tucking Tweek’s hair behind his ears. “I knew there was no such thing as Barbarians.” 

Tweek’s pupils dilated as a coarse fear ran through him. His ears were a secret between him and the Princess. He supposed his parents knew, though they never spoke of it. Occasionally she’d muse about how if things were different, if it was a time of peace, that he could slick his hair back. He’d be handsome that way. 

“I’ve always wanted to please an Elf,” Feldspar hovered over him as Tweek tried to control his breathing. He was not an Elf. He lived with the humans and was loyal to their crown. He was not one of the monsters that slaughtered towns that edged too close to their territory. He’d never burn a village to the ground.

“Mmph,” Tweek moaned as Feldspar worked the lobe of his ear in his mouth. That was something the Princess liked to do. She’d whisper to him, speak of the unspeakable things they’d do in the next half hour, then place delicate kisses before sharp bites. 

“Are you smaller or larger than humans?” Feldspar asked, groping the front of his pants. “I suppose it depends if you’re flaccid. Are you?” 

Tweek bucked his hips forward, grinding against his hand as he garbled unintelligibly. He desperately wanted to say he hadn’t spent his time as a stable hand plopping his penis on the table and comparing. Instead, he was careful. He mashed up his vowels, careful to make no sound that was English or Elvish.

“What do we do for lube here?”

Tweek was unsuccessful in stifling his laugh. He did, however, manage to morph it into a series of grunts as the chain around his leg rattled against the stone floor. With both hands he guided Feldspar to his waistband, pulling the pants to the floor. They wouldn’t come off all the way, not with the shackle, but it was enough for access.

When Feldspar stalled, looking perplexed at Tweek’s equipment, Tweek rolled his eyes. Had this man never been a situation where lube was not available? Surely, he didn’t slaughter a calf before every encounter. 

With parted lips, he knelt down, knees digging into the stone, and pulled Feldspar’s hand to his mouth. He loudly sucked on his fingers, rocking his hips back and forth for added visual stimulation. Not only did he need to be loud, but so did his partner. The King needed to feel purposely excluded. 

The Princess had told him that in his haste to correct a slight done to him, he’d get sloppy and make mistakes.

Tweek shouted when two fingers entered him. He screamed as loud as he could, hoping it sounded attractive and not pained. He rolled his hips into the movement, just to be clear. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a guard. He moaned again as Feldspar fumbled with his free hand to remove his tunic. 

He didn’t remove the hat, Tweek smiled. The dumb hat, one he must have had custom made by a hatter, mashed his hair flat against his head. They both had dumb hair, he supposed that was a good common ground. 

And they were both about to lay with with Elf King. 

“Fuck, this is gonna feel good,” Feldspar groaned, pants around his ankles. If Tweek had shoes, he’d have kept them on too, he thought. The penetration was unceremonious. They didn’t whisper to each other before beginning in earnest, but this wasn’t the Princess. He shouldn’t compare all other encounters to her, even if she was his favorite. 

“You are defiling my castle,” the Elf King said, rapping against the bars. Tweek looked up to see him order a guard away, face scrunched up in anger. 

“So sorry, m’lord,” Feldspar smiled, still on top of Tweek.

“Disengage,” the King warned, eyes steely. He held a ring of keys in his hand, and as Feldspar climbed off of him, the King knelt down and undid the lock around his ankle. 

He was making mistakes, just like the Princess had said. 

“You, kneel before me, mouth open,” the King commanded, pulling Tweek to his feet. When he did not obey, the King heaved a sigh, then pried his mouth open by hand. He jutted his hips out, pulling his tights down to his knees as he stuck his cock in Tweek’s mouth. 

This was not something the King had him do before. The Princess enjoyed this kind of treatment, the frills of her petticoat falling around him as he worked diligently, but he’d never done it with another person. 

It was something he was willing to sacrifice for the kingdom. He was sure when he returned home with the crown that the Princess would do anything he asked. Something to get the taste of the King’s cock out of his mouth might be first on the list.

“It’s not the worst head I’ve ever received,” the King said, grabbing into Tweek’s hair. Thankfully, in the previous encounter his hair had fallen back over the tops of his ears. Not that he thought that the King in this state was particularly observant. “I didn’t expect much from a brute who can’t speak.” 

“He’s playing you,” Feldspar said as the King panted. “I believe he’s perfectly intelligent.” 

“Oh, you sweet thing,” the King laughed. “A pauper like yourself wouldn’t understand the horrors a group of Barbarians can bestow upon a kingdom.”

“Your Majesty,” Feldspar bowed his head. The whole act was rather ridiculous, but judging by the sudden increase in thrusting, he must have enjoyed it. “Might I be of service to you?” 

Tweek held his breathe, hoping to somehow tie up the man before him. Murdering a King was not ideal with a witness, and certainly not with a witness who seemed to have a fondness for the man. 

“Behind,” the King ordered, lifting the tail end of his robes. Feldspar nodded obediently, rushing to his backside, hand pumping feverishly. The King keened when he was penetrated, losing himself in the rhythm of his prisoners. 

What kind of demented kingdom has sex with their captives? Tweek wasn’t sure. He was sure that the King was too out of touch to feel Tweek’s fingers sliding into his left boot. There were no signs that he had noticed Tweek theft of the dagger, and the sound of skin on skin and cries for more had masked any clatter of metal. 

Tweek was idle until the King made the noise he always made, a high pitched grunt, then a sigh. As semen squirted into his mouth, he rammed the dagger into the King's inner thigh.

The King screamed as Feldspar kept rocking into him. In short order he crumbled into a heap, his robes touching the ground as Feldspar held him aloft. He finished with a grunt as Tweek slapped a hand over the King’s mouth, holding it steady as he bled onto the floor. 

“What just happened?” Feldspar asked as Tweek yanked the crown from his head. “What did you do?” 

Tweek held his hand in place, smiling as the King’s eyes went dull. For show, he told himself, he ran his hand along the King’s blood on the floor and smeared it on his face. He did it again, eyes wild, rubbing it on his chest. 

Barbarians wore war paint after all. 

“Did you kill him?” Feldspar dropped him, letting his head hit the floor with a sickening crack. “You’re a murderer!” Tweek watched as he inhaled to scream. He responed by holding the dagger aloft. 

With his free hand, the one drenched in blood, he held a finger to his mouth, then slipped on his pants, shoving the crown down the front. Feldspar nodded, following suit. Tweek smiled, grabbing the keys from the floor and walking out the cell door for the first time in months.

“They’ll think I did it!” Feldspar whispered. 

Tweek shrugged, but motioned for him to follow. The more chaos, the better. There were only ever two guards in the dungeon from what he could tell, and if he opened all the cells, there was no way they’d all be caught.

Turned out, he was correct. In the mass of people running up the stairs and into the courtyard, the guards were flummoxed. Tweek stayed firmly in the middle of the group, tapering his run until he was outside the gates. 

What kind of second rate kingdom left their drawbridge down? Tweek would be sure to tell the Princess. He was sure she’d quite like this story. She had a knack for the fantastical, and while he had been so sure he was not in any form fantastic, the crown in his pants said otherwise. 

He stayed in the center of the pack until he saw the stables. The guards had left, not on horseback, but on foot. Who sent out knights on foot to solve a problem? The mismanagement made Tweek grin as he climbed atop a grey colt.

After a few commands in Elvish, they were off. He darted through the woods, just in case he had a tail. He didn’t think that anyone had noticed him in the chaos, but how could he be sure. Surely once they realized that their king was dead, they’d send scouts. 

In the ideal world, the Elves think that the Wizards had done it, or better yet the Orcs. Tweek giggled to himself as he imagined the Elvish equipment against their thick hide. That’d be a battle they’d never win, but one that would take a great deal of time to lose.

Once he was within a ten klicks of the edge of town, he hopped off the horse, crown still firmly against his waist. He gave a sharp slap to his hindquarters, sending him back toward the Elves. He wouldn’t leave discernible tracks barefoot, and the colt would wander around until it found the stream. 

It was dark when he finally reached the market. He was thankful, feet blistered and covered in blood was not how he wanted to be received by the general public. He smoothed his hair over his ears, just to be certain, and made his way toward the castle.

He waited patiently as the guard dropped the drawbridge for him. He asked what happened, in a somewhat mocking tone, and Tweek just shrugged. He resisted the urge to hold up the crown. The fewer people who knew, the better. 

“You’re not fit to see Her Highness,” a handmaid said, frowning at him. “Though we are all pleased with your safe return, Sir.” 

“Thank you,” Tweek was well aware that his half bow while covered with blood was ridiculous, but it seemed to please her all the same.

“I’ll see if she’s proper for company,” the handmaid nodded to him before scurrying up the stairs.

He followed at his leisure, crown tucked away. The woman slunk aside as he reached the door, giving him a curt nod. 

“Is the rumor mill true?” The Princess called through the open door. “Has Sir Tweek really returned?” 

“Your Highness,” Tweek stumbled into the room, voice coarse. Awash with emotion, he knelt to the floor at her bedside. She rose to her feet, tussling his hair as her nightclothes dragged the floor. 

She hadn’t had any company, Tweek smiled to himself, fishing down the front of his trousers. On nights she had a suitor she didn’t wear bedclothes. 

“Someone is eager,” she teased as Tweek fumbled with himself. Tweek glanced up at her, relishing how she looked down at him. “Are you in need of a good dicking?” 

Tweek laughed, though it was improper. He shook his head, not trusting his voice. He hadn’t thought about the repercussions of not speaking for months.

“Oh, what a pity,” she lamented, the mischievous glint still in her eyes. “I had hoped you’d be an eager boy when we were reunited.” 

Once the points of the crown were free from the fabric, he held it out to her like an offering to a Goddess. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Her voice was a harsh whisper. “Were you successful in your quest?” 

Tweek nodded, head bowed and eyes cast to the floor. 

“Get off the damn floor,” the Princess pulled him to his feet. “Is that blood? Are you hurt?” Tweek shook his head. “Is the King hurt?” 

“Deceased,” Tweek said, emotionless. 

“You did very well, boy,” she smiled, showing all of her teeth. “Do you know about that crown?” 

“Uh,” Tweek stalled as she examined it in the dull light of a lantern. He knew it was the Elvish crown. And he knew that he was supposed to bring it to the Princess. He didn’t think there was other relevant information to know. 

“The Elf that wears the crown is King.” She held it up, and snorted. “It’s just a bunch of sticks. You’d think they’d use jewels, or at least a metal, but no. Elves always go for practicality.” 

Tweek jumped when she leaned in for a kiss. He reciprocated, jaw slack as she ran a hand through his hair. He’d missed these moments. He was clay in her hands, soft moans playing at his lips as she scratched at his scalp. 

“May our union be blessed, and our nations be at peace,” she whispered as they pulled apart. Tweek noticed the air on his ears, and made a move to cover them. “No, stop,” her voice was kind. “The Elven King should be proud.” 

“He’s dead,” Tweek’s face contorted as he tried to follow what she was saying. Very softly, her two hands touched the top of his head, smoothing his hair back one last time.

The crown was on his head. He was wearing the Elven crown.

“I’m the King?” He asked, befuddled. 

The Princess nodded. 

“We will have a formal crowning ceremony, but you were always one for practice,” she placed a peck on his lips. “Elves and their practicality.”

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGERS: DUBCON/NONCON, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, BLOOD
> 
> I hope y'all liked it. I had a lot of fun with it, and while I'm a day too late for Cryle week (and it's only Cryle if you squint) I hope it satisfies something for you.


End file.
